Hometown Glory
by Madame Hatter
Summary: Still homeless and destroyed by Gordon's death, Steve moves back to the Alphabet City to find hope. Instead he finds Mimi, after dropping out of Rehab, dying. He vows to take care of her and learns to forgive himself for letting Gordon go. Incomplete.


**Author's Note: I was writing this when I found out one of my favorite pop icons died. It's hard losing someone who's inspired you through music and dance. He was my Elvis, my John Lennon and I'd like to tribute this to his memory. As always, reviews are welcomed and constructive criticism encouraged.**

I'd also like to thank Tally for devoting as much time beta-reading my story as I have writing it. You rock.

_Disclaimer: It's all Mr. Larson's_

**Prequel**

"Lift your head up or you'll choke," I said slipping the funnel between his lips. I poured the water into its mouth and felt him struggle as the liquid slid down his throat. "Gordon, sit up," I said and helped him lean against the building. His fragile hand gripped my arm and I bit my lip, trying not to mention anything. The guy who used to beat me two out of three every time in arm wrestling could barely hold onto me. I made sure he was sitting straight before I tilted the water bottle into the funnel again.

"Fuck, Gordon, what are you doing?" The bottle crashed to the floor. It took me a bit off guard when he shifted and moved his head, sending the funnel and what was left of our clean water to the ground. I darted to pick the bottle up before the water escaped completely. I pressed the funnel back in between his lips.

"No," he managed to gurgle. "You, Steve. Go ahead, drink." He began to cough and his head jerked forward and regressed. I held the back of his head to keep from hitting against the granite.

"You need it more than I do," I said softly.

He continued to cough, but I couldn't help noticing a touch of laughter somewhere in between. "You're trying to… keep a dead man alive?"

"For as long as I can," I muttered. I looked down. It was hard to look at him because it just didn't look like Gordon anymore. His hair was long and grubby, his face caked with dirt, his eyes blank and soulless. There were only a few moments when I knew Gordon was still in there. The way he said my name, the way he spontaneously remembered random memories even though he couldn't even recall his own surname, reminded me that he was still inside that frail body.

"Damn it, Gordon, if we had just readmitted you into the hospital," I said rubbing my forehead. "I would have paid with my limbs if I had to. I would have let them feast on my organs for the rich sick kids out there."

I looked around. No one else was staring; no one else cared a man was dying. There was a full row of homeless vagabonds just like us on both sides and no one cared that a man a few feet away was going to die tonight. The sky was dark and refused to shed a tear, the shadows engulfed our bodies so no one else would see the tragedy that was going to take place and the moon hid away from it all. I was sitting with my knees in front of me. I tucked my toes underneath an old newspaper, hoping to find some warmth.

"I'm glad," said Gordon suddenly, his voice raspy but sharp. "I'm glad I'm not in that hospital."

"Gordon…"

"You know how sick I am of them? Trying to keep me alive? _Keep Gordon alive so he could suffer_…"

"We both know how sick you are, man." He smiled and I was relieved to know he still had his sense of humor. As had I.

I closed my eyes, trying to envision how we used to be, how we used to look. For some reason I couldn't see his face anymore. All I knew of Gordon was what I saw in front of me—a pale, pasty-skinned ex-delivery boy whose skin was slowly sinking in. The Gordon I used to share an apartment with, who I met a year ago at a Life Support meeting and became my very best friend, the Gordon I wanted to remember, was now a memory I could no longer reach. All I could see was brown, wavy hair, medium-height, normal build… like two million other men in New York City. I could see him there in my mind, but it's so far away and pretty soon I knew I wouldn't be able to distinguish that memory from any of the others.

I pulled out the bottle of AZT in my pocket. My last bottle. A month ago I was grateful I had enough money to buy more time, more lifelines, but not even this sweet elixir could save my best friend. Shortly after being evicted from our apartment, Gordon began to lose a couple of his motor functions. It wasn't so bad when his knees wobbled when he walked—I just told him to stay put. I'd find us food somehow. It was a bit unnerving when his eyesight started to come and go, but we got through it. I had to show him being strong was easy. But one day, I almost panicked and broke down. I didn't know how I was going to save him when I found out he could barely swallow.

"Thanks, Steve." It was inaudible, but I understood it. I looked up. He seemed so exhausted of being… exhausted. I could tell he wanted so much just to shut his eyes, but for some reason, he couldn't. Or maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he knew I wouldn't want him to. I wouldn't want to see his eyes closed and assume the worst.

"Save your strength," I said encouragingly. It was hard to fake, this kind of hopefulness. "Anytime." Maybe if I couldn't be brave in hopes for a tomorrow, perhaps I could be brave in the face of his death. At least then he would be going as the strong high spirit I knew him to be instead of some hobo whose body and soul was wolfed down by disease.

"I wish you were coming with me," said Gordon as he attempted to laugh.

"Don't worry," I said. "It won't be long until I see you again, my friend." I felt my heart bouncing against my chest and something sharp slicing my stomach. I changed my mind. I didn't want him to go yet.

He was stiller than I had ever seen him. He made a few gurgling noises and his eyes rolled back. His whole body began to shake, like there was someone else inside him grappling for his soul and Gordon was fighting back with all his might. His head hit the wall with a crack and I stood up, scared. My throat tightened and I froze. All I could do was watch my friend convulse, sputter and bleed until his body laid peacefully on the pavement, tangled in the old blanket he was sitting on.

I wasn't sure how long I stood there for. It was so surreal and for a moment I thought it was a dream. I wanted to persuade myself that none of this was happening and that it was the contaminated water I had been drinking that made me hallucinate. Unfortunately, I was too smart to convince myself of something like that. Yet I couldn't blame the city of New York for allowing a system where the homeless had to sleep on cold sidewalks and drink dirty water; I couldn't blame our landlord for kicking us out; I couldn't blame his parents or mine. Who was culpable for this? Whose fault was it that my best friend died the way he did? Gordon was murdered by disease—who was going to be prosecuted for that? I wanted justice.

"God, is he dead?" the man next to me asked.

"It's Steve," I said vacantly. "And yeah… he's gone."

It was silent. The feeling was so heavy; my heart anchored me down so I couldn't move. I had submitted to our fate a long time ago and even though I could see now that my friend was truly gone, it was hard to believe the guy who changed my life in ways unimaginable wouldn't wake up the next morning.

"Well, let's move him," the man said, kneeling beside him.

"What?"

"Let's leave him in front of the shelter."

"_What_?"

"We just can't let him rot here, let's move him. Get, go on." We were going to throw him away like road kill, moving him not out of respect for the dead, but because he was an inconvenience. Nevertheless, I did as he said. We carried him a few blocks away, our feet shuffling across the concrete, and placed him on the stoop of the shelter's doorway. The door itself was tall and narrow and made of strong wood. There were long scratches across the bottom and I imagined desperate outcasts grating the barricade to comfort and hope with their dirty fingernails. Now Gordon was lying there.

The man told me they'd take care of it. I wondered if he thought saying that would ease the pain. I tossed the blankets, the funnel and everything else we kept in the bin nearby and repositioned my residency in another part of Manhattan. Back to the Alphabet City where I once lived.

Perhaps I should get a hold of Paul. Maybe his heart will bleed for me. I hated to use Gordon as a means to garner sympathy, but I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. At least Paul will listen this time.

Perhaps I should call home.


End file.
